Pleurs.

The town of Pleurs, situated among the Alps and containing about two thousand five hundred inhabitants, was overwhelmed in 1618 by the falling of Mount Conto. The avalanche occurred in the night, and no trace of the village or any of its inhabitants could ever after be discovered.     'T was eve; and Mount Conto     Reflected in night     The sunbeams that fled     With the monarch of light;     As great souls and noble     Reflect evermore     The sunshine that gleams     From Eternity's shore.     A slight crimson veil     Robed the snow-wreath on high,     The shadow an angel     In passing threw by;     And city and valley,     In mantle of gray,     Seemed bowed like a mourner     In silence to pray.     And the sweet vesper bell,     With a clear, measured chime,     Like the falling of minutes     In the hour-glass of Time,     From mountain to mountain     Was echoed afar,     Till it died in the distance     As light in a star.     The young peasant mother     Had cradled to rest     The infant that carolled     In peace on her breast;     The laborer, ere seeking     His couch of repose,     Told his beads in the shade of     A fortress of snows.     Up the cloudless serene     Moved the silver-sphered Night;     The reveller's palace     Was flooded with light;     And the cadence of music,     The dancer's gay song,     In harmony wondrous,     Went up, 'mid the throng.     The criminal counted,     With visage of woe,     The chiming of hours     That were left him below;     And the watcher so pale,     In the chamber of Death,     Bent over the dying     With quick, stifled breath.     The watchman the midnight     Had told with shrill cry,     When through the deep silence     What sounded on high,     With a terrible roar,     Like the thunders sublime,     Whose voices shall herald     The passing of Time?     On came the destroyer;--     One crash and one thrill--     Each pulse in that city     For ever stood still.     The blue arch with glory     Was mantled by day,     When the traveller passed     On his perilous way;--     Lake, valley, and forest     In sunshine were clear,     But when of that village,     In wonder and fear,     He questioned the landscape     With terror-struck eye,     The mountains in majesty     Pointed on high!     The strong arm of Love     Struggled down through the mould;     The miner dug deep     For the jewels and gold;     And workmen delved ages     That sepulchre o'er,     But found of the city     A trace never more.     And now, on the height     Of that fathomless tomb,     The fair Alpine flowers     In loveliness bloom;     And the water-falls chant,     Through their minster of snow,     A mass for the spirits     That slumber below.